I am sneezing

And excessive sneezing makes me tired.  Plus I am also tired after walking at a brisk pace for 35 minutes today after i found out the bus was going to be at the stop for half an hour.  So I ended up beating the bus.  Suck on that.

Zombie sheep student

This term has been surprisingly difficult.  I’ve been finding myself falling asleep when trying to read something on the bus, which has never happened before.  There was even a time, earlier this week, when I was so tired I almost nodded off  on the bus and became one of those annoying students who I criticize in my head for not getting enough sleep.

Even while I was studying at Langara, this didn’t happen.  UBC is turning me into a zombie sheep person.  Ahh!

Bus rant

I normally don’t rant about daily annoyances, but I feel I must do it today.

Okay.  Lots of people don’t know how to open the doors to get off the buses in Vancouver.  It also doesn’t help that there are many minorities and immigrants in this city, but the only instructions labeled on the doors are in English.  As the bus stopped, an older man wanted was waiting by the doors.  He touched the doors, as one is supposed to do to open them, but the bus driver hadn’t unlocked the doors (the lights at the doors weren’t on).  He pushed and pushed and hit the doors, yelling, “Get off!  Get off!”  A lady sitting nearby (I couldn’t actually see her from where I was sitting but heard her voice) simply advised him, “Push!”, as if it was the obvious thing to do.  Except of course, it didn’t matter how much he pushed the door (which he was already doing anyway)– the bus driver hadn’t unlocked the doors.

What bothered me about this was not the older man, but the woman, who wasn’t helping the situation.  There are some people in this city who think they know how the transit system works, or in this case, how to get off the bus, but they don’t.  In the words of George Carlin, “some people seem intelligent… but wait.  They’re just full of shit!”  And anyway, to open the door, you don’t need to push at all.  You don’t even need to touch the doors.  It’s activated by sensors.

I shouted to the bus driver, “Backdoor”, what has now become a sort of unofficial way of saying, “Hey, driver.  Could you open the door for me?”  The lights came on and the man got off.  Crisis over?

At the next stop, the same thing, oddly enough, happened again.  Another older man wanted to get out.  Doors were locked.  He shouted, “Get off, get off!” too (is this becoming the new “Backdoor!”?).  Unhelpful woman told him to “Push”, which he was already doing.  Bus driver unlocked the doors.  Sensor sensed him there.  They opened.

I wanted to go up to the woman and educate her on how to actually get off the bus, which does not include pushing the door or really, using any force.  But then I had to get off the bus, and lo and behold, I didn’t even have to touch the doors.

I think I sort of got insulted…

Well, here’s what happened.  I was on the bus, going to meet my sister at Broadway station.  I was sitting on the row of seats facing sideways, out the window when these two, white, older and bigger built guys sat down on the opposite side, not facing directly at me but a few seats down.  They started talking about stuff while I listened to Vanessa Carlton on my walkman.  They sat beside each other for a few minutes when — here’s where I don’t understand — one of them mentioned something about “nobody needs to see that” and he changed seats and sat in one of the middle-of-the-bus seats, facing opposite his friend who continued sitting where he was.

There was a woman sitting directly across from me who was also listening to music but she gave me a few looks and I thought the two guys (well, the one guy at least) might’ve been talking about the pins on my bag: probably most noticeably, the one with the rainbow Mickey Mouse silhouette.  I had the small urge to take off my headphones and ask if they were talking about/to me, but I’m not a confrontational guy and I don’t like to make scenes, particularly in public.  And as far as I could hear, I didn’t catch any slurs of any kind.  Sure, the guy may have been homophobic but what could I have done?  There’s this pressure to not call on people who say offensive things in public; how many people just sit there and do nothing when others say “fag” or “faggot” or “that’s so gay”?

Anyway, it’s hard even for me to tell people they shouldn’t say certain things in public; I guess I feel as if they might retort with something along the lines of, “I’ll do what I want, you [insert explicative]” or “Or you’ll do what about it?” and it would escalate and so on.  Especially if they’re big guys who could probably knock me out, I feel pressure to just shut the hell up and feel guilty about not saying anything after.

Sigh.  It’s the right thing to tell people not to say these things, right?  As they say, the right thing to do is usually the hardest.

Bus Boy

According to when I last modified this, I wrote this in 2009.  Contrary to what I say in the end, I don’t remember.  Hmm.

Bus Boy

I first saw him not at the video exchange but on the bus.  He sat next to the doors on the back, and I first noticed him through the spaces between the bars as I slowly walked into the interior of the vehicle.  His eyes were focused on something outside the window, as if seeking solitude, but the empty seat beside him said otherwise.  As my eyes stayed on him when I walked past, I yearned for him to look over at me, and just before passing, he did.  I can only describe him as absolutely beautiful, and I almost felt humbled in his presence.

 

I took a seat facing outside the window, perpendicular to him, so that I could observe him without being obvious.  He wore a grey-bluish t-shirt, jeans, Adidas sneakers with a backpack on his lap.  It was only when he reached up with him right hand to scratch his head that I noticed the hair on his arms and the tan on them too, slowly fading into his natural skin colour at an invisible line just below the sleeves of his t-shirt.  As he continued to stare out at the world, the fine facial hair on his cheeks down to his chin were inviting me to walk over and touch them, to spend my entire day brushing them with my face as we kissed.  He was so beautiful.

 

But then it began again.  That little voice in my head that everyone has, only mine is more pronounced than others because I listen to it.

 

“What’s the use?  He’s not going to notice you, and you’re too chicken shit to go over and talk to him, loser.  Pathetic.  Truly, pathetic.”

 

The words seeped into my mind despite my efforts to dig them out and throw them away.  It was the truth; I didn’t need a fortune teller to tell me this scene was going to play out the way it always did – with me thinking about him the entire day while I wallowed in sadness about how I had the chance but didn’t grab it.

 

Then the tears came.  But they never flow.  I didn’t allow them to, but they collected in my eyes, evidence that those hateful, truthful words meant something.

 

Suddenly, I felt a familiar stirring in my nose and sneezed.  He turned to my direction when I opened my eyes, and my mind jumped to conclusions that were beyond belief.  I wondered if he knew I was staring at him the whole time.  I could not read his face, so I assumed he was merely glancing over.

 

He finally turned his head again, but didn’t look back out the window.  He sat staring straight ahead, slightly angled in my direction, and this was all the proof my foolish, naïve mind needed to assume he had some attraction to me, or at least curiosity.  I could have smiled, but I didn’t think he would have noticed.

 

It was my stop.  I hated to leave, to leave him on that bus with that empty seat beside him, where I should have been, talking to him about recent movies, his favourite music, and where he was going.  I should have been there.  But I wasn’t.  Instead, I shouted a quick, “Thank you” to the bus driver before stepping off.  After a few paces, I looked back at the bus.  His head was turned in my direction again, but I couldn’t be certain he was looking at me.  I memorized his face like a blind man and Braille – every bump, curve, and wrinkle locked into my mind.  Still, my hopeful mind believed – believes that I will see that beautiful boy again, and that time, the empty seat next to him will be filled by me.

Bus absurdity

Random paragraph I wrote for non-fiction class.

***

The best place to hear the most absurd things people will say is on the bus.  Two young men, probably in their early to mid twenties, dressed like typical skateboarders sat behind me on the number 20 bus.  One was telling the other about this TV show involving a man owning a prison.  One day, the warden made the prisoners change their uniforms to rabbit constumes, as it was around Easter time.

His friend quickly asked, “Is he gay?”

Angry people make me happy

as I was crossing the street, a man who was walking near me stopped in front of an SUV waiting at the light and mumbled something to himself.  I thought he had perhaps recognized the driver or was looking to see if a bus was coming but as I got to the curb, I heard him shouting, “Fuck you too!  You’re not supposed to be talking on your phone!  It’s against the law, asshole!”  so I guess the driver had retorted with a “Fuck you” first.

He was also waiting for the 49 as well–the worst bus line in Vancouver, I swear–and when it came, it advertised itself as being full.  However, it was only moderately full, and there were hardly any people standing up.  As the driver stopped a few feet away from the designated bus stop and let people off, the man went up to the bus and I presumed yet again he was trying to get on it.  But he shouted some stuff at the bus driver, probably something along the lines of, “The bus isn’t full, you jerk, so don’t say it is” to which the driver responded by telling him to come over and probably replied with something along the lines of, “Screw you, buddy.  I’m a bus driver and I can put whatever I want on it.  Also, I’m gonna make you wait several more minutes in the burning sun for the next bus, so there.”  And with that, the bus driver drove away, leaving the angry guy (and me) waiting.

I like the kind of people who are brave and confident to say things that everyone is thinking but hold back on, and I daresay I admire them, to a certain extent.  They keep life interesting.  At least mildly.  I can’t think of anything else to say so I will leave it at that.  Maybe the next time I see someone driving while on the phone I’ll channel my inner angry guy and give them a good verbal thrashing they won’t forget.

For the Boy On the Bus

Story of my life.  Sigh.

For the Boy On the Bus

10 minutes ago,
I saw a boy on the bus
blush-cheeked,
tinny music pouring into his ears.
my sight sniffing out stimulating nuggets to not break the ice,
but to set foot on the glassy surface.
insipid questions forming from a burning mind,
building precariously leaning towers of delusion
seeping past the filters I’d installed long ago.

My eyes, bloodshot passion, a drunkard’s
and I look to his for a similar affliction
but there is simply stern neutrality – a flatter-lipped Mona Lisa.

A good guess, albeit a stupid one:
one glance does not tip the scales.

His image, frozen in memory,
more vibrant and destructive than a photograph.
because moments from now,
the only way you’ll pan through the mud for the words to say
is by writing ones he’ll never see.

Conversations With a Ghost

The original short story which was then adapted into On the Bus, which was produced and filmed in my last term at Vancouver Film School.  (the video at the bottom)  There are clear differences between the short story and the film.  Which do you like better?

I wrote this story back in high school after a similar experience I had.  I won’t go into the details right now but if you’re wondering, I don’t converse with ghosts anymore.

Conversations With a Ghost

I sit there, dumbly, my mind pushing itself to think of an answer.  Who should I ask out?  I had only a few more days ’till the bet was up with my friend.

“You could ask me.”  I recognize that voice.  It’s him again, sitting across from me, wearing what I last saw him wear; a baseball cap turned backwards, a casual sweatshirt and jeans, topped off with glasses that actually make him look semi-smart.

“Why would I do that?”  My voice shows a possible foreshadowing of anger.

“Because you like me.  You’ve always liked me, since the moment you saw me.”  He smiles, which I interpret to be an evil smile, and tilts his head slightly to one side.

“Yeah, so what?  I’m scared.  I’m scared that you’ll reject me.  Why in hell would anyone want that?”  The anger is rising.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?  What’s this based on?”

“On the fact that most times when I happen to see you in the halls, some slut is hanging off of you, like a dead animal.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.  We’re just friends.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before.”

“Did you ever stop to think that it might be true?  Why would I lie to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know; because you keep breaking my heart, dammit!  You’re the only guy I haven’t ever really gotten over.”

“I’m sorry about that.  I can’t help that I’m so good looking.”

“Shut up.  That’s not helping.”

“What do you want me to say?  ‘Oh Jeremy, I’ve been in love with you too and I’ve been waiting 4 years for you to tell me!  Let’s get married and ride off into the sunset!'”  He laughs (loudly, I might add).  I silently fume to myself.

“You have no idea what it’s like when you see someone you love and know you won’t ever end up with them, but you still want them to be with you.  You have no idea how sad I am when I see you, the only boy I’ve ever really fallen in love with.  You just don’t get it do you?”  By this time, depression has replaced my rage.

He leans forward in his seat, closing the gap between our faces.  The complexion on his face is hard to read.  I expect him to say something comforting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Jeremy?  You say you like me and stuff but you’re too scared to talk to me because you’re afraid I’ll reject you.  What have you got to lose by talking to me?”

“Everything, including my life.”

“You know what the most pitiable part of this whole thing is?”  He leans back against the seat, his arm draped across the adjacent seat, trying to look laid-back.  I already know what he’s going to do and begin to brace for the worst.

“The saddest thing about this is that you have to make me up to talk to you.  I’m part of your stupid little fantasy.  You make me say whatever you want to make you feel better…

“Shut up.  Stop it now.”

“…and it works, yet when the real me comes strolling along, you might as well have jumped in a ditch or something…

“Shut up right now.  I mean it, Sean.”

“…because you’re just too shy to talk to me.  Now that is just sad.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know me!”

“Oh, I know you alright.  But do you wanna know something really pathetic?”

At this point, I can’t even talk anymore.

“No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you are never ever going to get over me.  Never.”  He smiles that evil smile again.  I hate that one.

I’ve had enough of this charade.

“Stop it!  Go away!  Leave me alone!”  I shut my eyes tightly.

For a few seconds, I don’t hear anymore from him.  When I open my eyes, a fat woman in an ugly pink muumuu is sitting in his seat.  I can feel her studying me, which makes me feel like a lab rat.

“Are you okay, dearie?”  She pulls out a small tissue from her matching ugly purse.  It is not until now that I feel the warm streaks of tears on my face.  I had been crying, during my own fantasy where I was in control, or at least thought I was.

I tell her I am fine and take the delicate paper from her to wipe my eyes.

“I remember when I was in high school, so many memories…” her voice continues.

Stop talking to me!  And get some new clothes while you’re at it! my mind screams.

“…and bad ones, too.  I don’t think I’ll ever get over those ones…”

I glance up at her, my entire body in shock.  Her face slowly morphs into Sean’s as they both finish the last word simultaneously: “Never.”